


Loser

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M, Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it still self harm when you’re dragging a razorblade over somebody else’s arms? Is it still friendship when your boyfriend sleeps with your best friend and they fuck using each others blood?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loser

Once a cheater always a cheater, and now-a-days Brad’s obnoxious laugh makes Chester want to chew glass. Or maybe he wants Brad to eat glass. He wants to see the shards smash his teeth and slice his mouth, blood and diamonds of glass oozing from between his shredded lips.

Probably though that’s the kind of shit that Rob gets off on since he’s so into self harm. Is it still self harm when you’re dragging a razorblade over somebody else’s arms? Is it still friendship when your boyfriend sleeps with your best friend and they fuck using each others blood?

Is it still a band when there’s nothing holding you together?

When the band are altogether they could just be friends, but they still go home together after a day in the studio, and Chester is still alone. It used to be he slept with Brad curled up against him. He always had the coldest fucking hands and whenever they touched him he’d wake up, but he’d take them any day over the images that plague his dreams.

Of Rob pressing Brad down against the mattress, the razor blade poised between his long fingers. He drags it across Brad’s thigh and presses his mouth to the wound to lap at the blood that rises to the surface. Some nights it ends in them both being dead.

And most nights it ends up in Chester staggering downstairs to get wasted in the kitchen. Tonight, though, he drops the bottle of whiskey and it shatters into a zillion pieces on the floor. He steps on some immediately and the pain is instant and brings tears to his eyes. The alcohol soaks into the cut and the sting intensifies.

Chester tries to step out from amongst the mess but the room is spinning and he slips in the whiskey, landing hard on his hands and ass amongst the glass and the alcohol. It cuts his hands and his forearms, everywhere feeling like someone has set fire to his body.

He should get up, he knows he should. There’s so much blood, he needs to get up and call somebody. But then he realises that there’s only Brad that he wants to call, and it’s so pointless. Brad would bring Rob and they’d take one look at the mess and start jerking off.

It’s so ridiculous that Chester starts to laugh, hysterically. He laughs and he laughs and he laughs and he stays there amongst the glass and whiskey and the blood, the blood and the blood.

Because surely this is better.

This is the most alive he’s felt since Brad left.

And maybe he'll bleed to death here.

And maybe that’s okay.


End file.
